


It's Never Over

by Kastaka



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-20
Updated: 2012-10-20
Packaged: 2017-11-16 16:54:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/541741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kastaka/pseuds/Kastaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's never over for Finnick... until it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Never Over

**Author's Note:**

  * For [navaan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/navaan/gifts).



_It's never over_

The mast of a boat, bobbing in the waves; the group of small boys dare each other to climb the rigging, waiting for the catch to land - a precious free moment before the work begins again, the gutting and the cleaning with their nimble fingers.

The sky is so wide and open, the clouds skittering across it like shoals of sky-fish. Even here, Finnick is set apart. As he begins to climb, instead of racing him, the others just sit back and watch - in envy, in admiration, in a strange hush of respect...

And the adults are not oblivious to the spectacle, either. Watching him determinedly, methodically climb the ropes, young muscles straining, perfect skin practically gleaming in the sunlight - just the kind of heroic figure, perhaps, that District 4 needed.

That it needed to throw to the wolves for a chance at the rich prizes offered to districts that win the Hunger Games - prizes which many in the District remembered from previous triumphs, and coveted again.

_It's never over_

The debate was long and acrimonious. Mostly it was conducted where he wasn't - adults talking over his head, behind closed doors, taking their own decisions about his future without even thinking of consulting the golden boy. But he had been taught well how to read the language that other people did not even know they were speaking, and he knew almost every detail.

There were other young men; larger, more intimidating, grown into their frame and almost into their adult musculature. And Finnick had clearly not finished growing. In a couple of years, perhaps, he would be stronger - faster - better trained...

But they pointed at older boys in his family, and they whispered. Those long limbs - they might easily turn gangly, with the onset of full adolescence - that songbird voice would break and fade. And another, uglier undertone: he was not exactly the traditional brawn-headed Career Tribute. 

If he was allowed to grow much older, he might decide that life was too worth living to throw it away for this cause.

So the decision was made. Fourteen years would have to do. He would be this year's volunteer for the Games.

He stands in the group with the other boys of his cohort; and he toys with the idea of not standing forwards, of not taking up his duty. Someone else, he is sure, will volunteer - it will not be left to the poor kid whose name is drawn out of the cheerful tombola machine.

Even though he knows the manipulation that has occurred behind the scenes - even though he knows that his carers and trainers have not had his best interests at heart - even though he knows it will mean his death, most likely... he cannot do it. 

He sees it in his mind's eye, the future he would have, the derision; the accusations of cowardice; the malign whispers in the street; the shame of wasting all the resources that the District has lavished on him to prepare him for this moment. And as some other name is called, and all eyes alight on him, he steps forwards and volunteers for the 65th Hunger Games..

_It's never over_

A flash of silver in the corner of his eye.

Before he has given it a moment's thought, a knife is in his hand and a knife is slicing through the air, and a spear is being drawn as he registers that it is not the silver of another competitor's blade, but yet another parachute.

He listens for a long moment; a parachute could easily give away his position. But there is no footfall that he can discern, nothing but the constant activity of the jungle's many dangerous creatures... nothing from the most dangerous creatures of all: his opponents.

The parachute has landed somewhere in the mid-canopy, which is his main preserve, not setting foot on the ground where he could avoid it; he swings over on vines that would blister his hands if not for the gloves he has taken from an incautious tribute.

Wedged in the branches, gleaming in the glorious sunlight, is a trident; perfectly weighted, beautifully silvered. He snatches it up and twirls it around, putting on a show for the many watching eyes that he can always feel the weight of - but at some level he is overawed, still, that they could love him enough to provide such a gift.

Now he would just have to be worthy of their generosity: through the blood of the other contestants...

_It's never over_

It is a whirlwind and beautiful year, that first year after he wins the Hunger Games. Mags' delighted laughter at their reunion; the tour of the districts, where some were afraid of meeting those whose children they had killed - but in the euphoria of survival, he knew that his radiance would win them over regardless.

After all: he has, most of all, been trained in how to manipulate an audience.

The following year is almost as good, as he parades around the Capitol, charming his admirers; redirecting their little favours to those in his District who need them. There are dark clouds circling, certainly. The Sixty-Sixth Hunger Games, although there is no question yet of him becoming a mentor, cast a long shadow across the proceedings.

But for the most part, the golden boy enjoys his well-earned luxuries, and is content.

He is glad that he did not defy the role he had been picked out for, even though the pleas of his fellow Tributes still ring in his ears at night, caught in his snares and ready to be gutted like fish...

_It's never over_

There are clearly things that the other Victors are keeping him from, on account of his age; and as his age ceases to be such a barrier, he is summoned to the office of President Snow.

The others offer their condolences; tell him to be brave, 'but not too brave', that it is something that he will get used to.

He flashes his winning smile, but there is nothing in his repertoire that can melt the ice that lives behind those eyes; and Snow tells him what is expected of such a glowing Victor.

His first suitor is waiting in the reception room; Snow's aide hands him over. She must be three times his age, at least. She has clearly paid an awful lot for this privilege - and she expects his full obedience, for such a price.

He thinks, briefly, of resisting. But he figures that will just make it worse. So he pretends, even to himself, that he is quite happy with the arrangement.

After all, he gets exclusive meetings with the cream of Capitol society...

_It's never over_

It is unreal, to be standing here again.

There are many fewer Victors than children, of course. The ceremonial ranks are strangely empty. And this time he has no intention whatsoever of volunteering.

Some might think that his life is worth escaping. But he's... he's doing okay, he thinks, he keeps telling himself. Sometimes he thinks about doing something drastic, getting into an accident, ruining his face. But mostly... mostly his life is good.

And he doesn't know if he would get away with it, even with the best-planned and most accidental-looking of accidents; and there is Annie, there is always Annie.

"Annie Cresta!"

No. He's just thinking about her. That's all it is. They haven't called the name yet.

He manages to keep up this useful delusion for long enough for the screaming to die down, and another figure to begin stumbling towards the stage...

...Mags.

He knows... he knows it is better... that she has so little to lose in any case...

"And from the gentlemen," coos the presenter, "we have..." 

Dramatic pause.

"Finnick Odair!"

He is not going to give them the satisfaction. He is not, certainly not, definitely not, going to let anyone else volunteer in his place. They had discussed it, of course, finding someone who would, but none of them were prepared to; it wouldn't be right to let it happen on the spur of the moment.

He grins at the cameras and swaggers forwards as if he had been expecting this; as if he welcomed it; as if he was happy.

He had plenty of practice at that, at least.

_It's never over_

He hefted the trident and remembered her screams.

Beetee is looking on anxiously; waiting for approval. He makes all the right gestures, says all the right words; it's something he can do on instinct, has done for years, and it's coming back to him along with the tight threads of determination and desperation dragging him inexorably towards the Capitol.

He can feel the snare tightening around him like one of his nets around an unlucky Tribute; he might have missed the hovercraft to District 2, but this trident is made for using.

Using on his enemies; on her enemies; on everyone who would keep them apart...

_It's never over_

It is strange how there is nothing but the sound of the surf, rising in his ears in a deafening tide; a strange kind of detachment.

He had become an expert on detachment, of course, but this is... different... more all-consuming... more final...

Across the beach, Annie is waving to him. There is something about her... he struggles to think, as the crashing waves against the rocks work to drown out the agony and the horror that is happening to his body, somewhere far away, back out into reality...

...she's slightly rounder than usual... she's pregnant. His memories of the last time they were together fall into place, as his consciousness begins to fade.

At least she will have something to remember him by. Maybe it will be enough to ground her, to keep her, to let her survive.

And then, with the roaring tide, the darkness rushes in.

_It's over_


End file.
